Spirit of Fire
by Kurufinwe Atarinke
Summary: This is a story based on the life of Fëanáro. It starts at the time he hears the Doom of the Statute of Finwë and Míriel, and continues to Middle-earth.


Fëanáro woke with a start, as he often did, his face smudged from the ink on the now-crumpled papers that had served as his pillow. He ran a hand through his thick black hair and stood, groaning aloud at the aches that coursed through his body from his uncomfortable sleeping position. He pushed back the chair in which he had slept and shoved it forcefully under the desk and crossed to the window to look out over Finwë's back gardens.

It was morning, but not yet day. The light of Laurelin was beginning to appear in Telperion's silver glow, but there were still some hours before it would be dominant. Fëanáro watched the light in silence, its beauty touching something in his heart that he did not care to examine or understand. It was soothing, in a way - if indeed anything could soothe the pain, anger, and - yes - fear, that daily ravaged him over the outcome of Mandos's decree.

_We will know soon_, Fëanáro thought, crossing his arms behind him and staring out the window in a martial position. _And what then?_

He turned from the window and made his way out of his study, making for the kitchen where already he heard the sounds of life as the servants began to prepare the morning meal. He stole into the kitchen, grabbing a soft pastry on the way through, and shoving it undecorously into his mouth as he exited the other side, finding himself finally outside in the serene coolness of early morning. He sat on a stone bench at the far end of the garden, his foot tapping impatiently.

He had just turned thirteen in the years of his people, and yet sometimes he already felt old. And angry. And at times confused. He could not fault his father for wishing to marry again, but he knew in his heart he could find no love for the woman who wished to take his mother's place. And what would become of him when - if - his father remarried? Would he become redundant? The child of a marriage that his father felt better forgotten? No. _No_, he told himself severely. His father loved him. Of that much he was certain.

He stood, his discontent rising within him once again. He could never seem to find peace. He could never remember a moment when he was content, a moment when all seemed right with the world and he could enjoy what life had to offer. He knew he was young, but it seemed that he burned from within, a fire for knowledge, for learning, for...for _more_ that nothing seemed able to quench. An indescribable anger rose in him and he growled, slamming his fist into the trunk of a tree, furious at his inability to affect this situation, at his helplessness and at his very smallness in the true scheme of things. He did not like not having his life in hand. He did not like it when things spiralled so terribly out of his control! He retracted his hand, cradling it in the other as the blood from his broken knuckles slowed and then stopped. He clenched his teeth against the pain - both emotional and physical, before turning on his heel and storming back inside.

"Father?" he cried, figuring it was time for his father to awaken if he had not already. "Father, are you still abed?"

After getting no response from his father, he burst into Finwë's bedchamber, only to find it empty. Turning on his heel and exiting, he grabbed the arm of the first servant he came across.

"Where is my father?" he asked, his impatience only vaguely restrained.

The servant cowered, hating to be the one to break such news to Finwë's passionate son.

"You have not heard, my Lord?"

"Heard _what_??" Fëanáro growled, dropping her arm. She stared at him for a moment, glancing around her as if deciding the best exits, then continued softly.

"He was told this morning that Mandos would be announcing the Doom. He is there, my Lord..." She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. "My lord, I am told that the Valar have decided...for your father."

All the colour drained from Fëanáro's face. He dropped the arm of the maid, who took the chance to escape. _The Valar have decided for your father..._ That would mean...

The grief that seized Fëanáro hit like a physical punch. Feeling as if the very air had been knocked out of his lungs, he staggered back until he came up against the wall, leaning against it heavily. His eyes burned with unshed tears and he clenched his fists desperately against such a weakness. Deep within the pit of his stomach, he felt his grief, his anger, growing as if it were a physical presence. Turning around and punching the wall hard enough to once again bloody his knuckles, he let out a strangled cry from the bottom of his soul. A cry of despair, of grief, of anger, of misery, all in one.

Barely taking time to grab his cloak as protection against the cool, damp morning, he stormed out of his father's house, his eyes open, but seeing nothing. His thoughts were of his mother as he kept replaying the few memories of her he still had...her soothing voice, her soft touch, the smell of her perfume...all gone..._all gone!_ now, forever.

_Until this morning, there had been hope..._ he thought. _Hope that she would return, that we could be...that we could still be a family._

Now...now his father would remarry, and have another family, and he would be...superfluous. A spare. Unwanted, if not by his father then by his new wife. Finwë would be able to get on with his life now, and would not be hurt by Míriel's weakness.

_But what of me?_

The grief cut anew, piercing his heart like a sword. He broke into a run, with no destination in sight, wanting only to escape the Doom, to escape the fact that he had just become redundant, to escape the fact that his mother was truly and completely gone. That he would have to share his father.

Finwë's attentions, as long as Fëanáro could remember, had been his, and his alone. Now he would have to share with a new wife, more children, perhaps more sons. And he did not want to share. He liked the life that he and his father had created for themselves since Míriel had retired to Mandos. But everything he had known was gone, banished in an instant by the pronouncement of the Valar.

Finding himself high in the hills, slowing his advance from pure exhaustion, Fëanáro fell to his knees, then to his back in the cool meadow. Staring up at the sky, more golden now than silver, he let the tears come. Slow at first, they became choking sobs. Sobs for his mother, for his father, and for himself.


End file.
